


The Journalist: The Lead

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [4]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel in the series wherein we see Tom first meeting our journalist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: The Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to The Journalist: Hungover in Love, and The Journalist.

Agreeing upon where the interview would take place was almost as taxing, so your boss claimed, as getting the elusive Tom Hiddleston to agree to the interview in the first place. Lord knows how many hoops your boss had needed to jump through for an agreement to be reached, but something – ultimately – had been said to secure the interview.

For reasons you couldn’t fathom the task had fallen to you. It certainly wasn’t that you had tenure. There were others that had been on staff far longer. During the negotiation stage you’d spotted your boss at his desk with a list of staff members, a page full of surnames with lines, scribbles, or huge black marks taking them out of the running. A merit based reward recognizing your abilities? Unlikely, merely for the fact that (a) your boss didn’t work that way, and (b) your working relationship with him was limited to a mediocre understanding of one another at best. Even considering the few years you’d worked for him - if it wasn’t on your resume, he wasn’t aware of it. End of.

That leaves the simple fact that it had probably been at the request of the Hiddleston camp, the notion of which leaves you vaguely unsettled. Just what had been passed back and forth about the staff members to help in the decision? Photo, resume, dossier – life story? What wasn’t available on the internet these days?

To combat your sense of unease you arrive early to the restaurant, thankful that a private room had been both available, and reserved. There’s hardly a soul inside right now, your arrival happening between the breakfast and lunch rush, and this interview taking place on a weekday besides. That doesn’t mean the place won’t soon be full of patrons.

After a quick word with the manager to express your thanks you set about the task of prepping the room. You turn the small table near the window so that the sun won’t be a problem during the interview, and adjust the chairs  _just so_  to be able to provide a buffer to guard against what your sources call The Hiddleston Charm.

He arrives almost exactly on time, just a minute or two before the scheduled meeting time for the interview. In your experience with his ilk that translates to early, but you’ll not be giving him a good boy pat on the head for it. On time is on time, and common damned courtesy.

The only reason you spot his arrival, the reason you’re not hidden away and scouring your notes for last minute talking points that might jump out at you, is that you’ve forgotten to snag the water bottles. The bottles of water  _thankfully_  carried by the restaurant had been a suggestion from the Hiddleston camp relayed to you by your boss, and one that he’d practically demanded you comply with.

So much for being seated and expectant when he enters the room and the air of professionalism that would have gone with it.

The heavy glass bottles threaten to slip from your grasp and you have to switch from holding the both of them by their caps to gripping one by the neck of the bottle. He’s stopped to turn about and hold the door for someone, then glances at his watch as he follows them inside. His little act of kindness has officially made him late.

Tom looks up for a quick survey of the small lobby of the restaurant as he starts to walk with purpose. Of course he knows exactly where he’s headed, the location was another of the requests by his camp. Familiar ground – perhaps a favorite dining location when he is in town? Then his gaze settles upon you, instantly registering recognition. The neutral smile you offer is met by a nod and friendly wave that feels close to an old acquaintance renewed.

You readjust your Actor Armor as he approaches, readying yourself for what comes next. Introductions. From here on you’ll just have to rely on your ability to keep the man on task as you have with other actors you’ve interviewed. It’s that or bore him to death with standard questions, which you’d rather not do. Your boss would murder you if you went that route. A wasted opportunity after all he went through? You’ll wait to see if you need to commit career suicide, using that as a last resort if you can’t find a way to burrow into the mystique surrounding Tom and get a few fun details for his fans and the readers of the magazine.

He’s wearing what amounts to a standard casual ensemble for men these days: blue jeans and a button up shirt, his a light blue in color that is partially hidden beneath a dark blazer. He’s already speaking to you before he’s made the final two steps to join you near the waiter’s station. “Hello. I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

An apology – of sorts – right off the bat. Completely in keeping with what you’ve been able to dredge up about him. Time to set up a decent rapport – and so begins the complicated dance of establishing a comfortable zone between the pair of you without overstepping the invisible actor/journalist boundary. “No. Not at all. You’ve actually caught me red-handed.”

His eyes drift down to the bottles of water before flicking back up to your face again. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” The smile accompanying the comment isn’t quite catching. There’s a weight to his words. A weight you can feel. It’s a test, one that you’ll pass or fail depending on your response.

You tilt your head towards the waiting private room. Further greetings can wait until the pair of you are settled and you can record the exchange. “It’ll be my head on the block if word gets out I forgot one of the few requests I needed to honor. So, you know, there’s that as an option if the interview goes horribly wrong.”

Something seems to shift within him and the corners of his eyes crease – that’s what had been missing before. Though he had been smiling it hadn’t quite engulfed his face. You feel your defenses slip slightly as Tom holds out his hand, beckoning you to lead the way. His reply is spoken to your back but you catch it, low and almost inaudible against the background of the restaurant, “Fair enough.”

He doesn’t head straight for the empty chair that you’ve taken the time to arrange, instead stepping ahead of you to the chair that you’ve claimed with your jacket. It takes you a moment to realize he’s intending on pushing it in for you to help you be seated. Pouring on The Hiddleston Charm a bit thick because he thinks it will win him favors in your article? It’s the second chivalrous act you’ve witnessed – admittedly the first one was unbeknownst to him. You mutter a thanks as he rounds the table to take his seat.

When Tom declines your unspoken offering of water you set the bottles in the center of the table, then rethink the maneuver and shift them to the nearby windowsill so they’re close on hand for later but not in the way. You slip your phone out of your back pocket and check his reaction as you set it on the table, “Do you mind if I record the interview? Audio only, promise. Better flow of conversation if I’m not looking down taking notes the entire time.” You hover your hand over your phone, ready to slip it out of view again if he objects.

“Not a problem. Thanks for asking.”

You shrug, speaking to fill the void as you finish fiddling with the settings of your phone. “Common courtesy.” You look up to find him watching you closely. To fight the fluttered feeling his focus stirs within your chest you press back into place your practiced neutral smile.

He reaches across the table to offer you his hand, “Your boss sent over a mini-bio but for the sake of proper introductions, I’m Tom. And you are?” He wants to hear your name – how it tumbles from your lips, the stresses and intonations you put upon it. As he shakes your hand he then repeats it back to you, testing it as though savoring wine. “_______. It’s nice to meet you, _______.”

“Hello, Tom. I think I should come clean before we start. I’m not exactly sure why I’m sitting here rather than one of my coworkers. I haven’t seen everything you’ve ever been in – most of my working knowledge of you is of your more recent work. Pretty sure if it had been completely up to my boss…” You purse your lips, deciding that maybe airing the company’s dirty laundry isn’t interview material. “Nevermind. Ignore me. Don’t worry. I’ve done my research. Filled in some of the more glaring gaps.”

He is grinning throughout your admission, towards the end letting out that delightfully low chuckle once more – and once again you feel your carefully placed neutral smile melting into something more genuine. Damn, he’s good. His flirtations seem effortless. “I’ll try not to hold it against you. Speaking of glaring gaps – I’ve got to ask about the accent.”

Despite your previous determination to keep him on task, you find yourself laughing and shaking your head, momentarily considering answering his query. Are you already being sucked in by his rumored magnetism? Maybe this is how this interview will go – tit for tat. Instead you say, “And now I’m wondering just what was included in that bio—“

“ _Mini_ -bio.”

“—you were given.”

“Enough to spur curiosity.”

You blink at him, trying to decide how to respond to that.  _What_ had been in that bio? Anyway, what was there to tell? You’d followed your dream career path – moved abroad when you’d been asked – and then things hadn’t quite panned out as you’d hoped. But here you were, still doing the job, and still enjoying it – most days. But entertaining your life story wasn’t why you were here, sitting across from this man. “And get you to agree to an interview, apparently.”

Tom tilts his head ever so slightly towards the window. A little frown appears, wrinkling his forehead just above and between his eyebrows. “Is this your way of telling me I’m not going to find out how the American with a degree in broadcasting ended up in London?”

You can feel your Actor Armor slipping further in response, along with the urge to say something to mollify him. You give your armor a sharp tug back into place. Moving on. Moving on. Get back to the task at hand.  “Well, it’s not why we’re here. Interesting choice in locations, by the way. Any significance there?”

“Convenience. Privacy. And the option of food – if you’re hungry?” He waits until you give your head a small shake in the negative before continuing, “This place has great pudding – sorry, desserts – if you change your mind. I have to try to squeeze in as much as I can while I’m home. Helps to combat the homesickness that can sometimes develop and linger.”

“Homesickness? You? From what I can tell, you always seem to be 100% in the moment. With your schedule it’s a wonder that you have time for missing home.”

“Thank you, I think…” He flutters through several emotions, his expression finally settling on what you take to be amusement. “We’re all – all susceptible to homesickness, aren’t we? I’m no more immune to the feeling than the next man. The lifestyle, frankly, opens up more opportunity for the affliction to sneak its way inside and find a foothold. There’s so much waiting involved. And that’s when – um – that’s when I sometimes find myself curious about the specials of the cafe just down the street from my home, even though at the time it might be half the world away. Or comparing the smell in the air after a night shoot to the last time I was sitting in the backyard one summer night, reading through the next few possible projects.”

You huff out a laugh under your breath, the comment escaping before you can snap your mouth shut again, “Are you sure we live in the same city? You actually  _miss_  the way it smells?”

Tom leans forward, flipping both massive hands so his palms are up. “I’m not saying I moon over the way the Thames smells, ever. But when you’re walled into your garden with the smell of earth and grass mingling with the night air…”

“So that’s my problem – no secret garden to disappear into.” You shake your head at him and then reach over to claim one of the two bottles of water. You don’t want to drink it, really, but it gives you something to do other than stare at him. Why had you asked to use your phone to record the conversation rather than use pen and paper? “If you start waxing on about the way it smells after it rains I’m going to have to call bullshit on you, pardon my French. The smell of rain is universal.”

“The smell of  _plants_  is universal. You’re not smelling the rain but the oils that the plants release when it rains.” He presses his fingertips of his right hand into the palm of his left and trails them down over the fine lines of his palm to express his point.

“Plants. In a city of stone and mortar.” You’re getting off track but there’s no way you’re letting him off easy.

He is unruffled, clearly enjoying himself and the fact that you’ve engaged him on the subject. “There are still plants.”

Debating with him over his love of London will get you nowhere, and more than likely eat up all the time for the interview. Still, you’re reluctant to let it go. “So you hide in your secret garden when you’re home.”

“I do find time, occasionally, to sit and enjoy my surroundings. Stop and smell the roses, if you will.” For a moment his eyes go out of focus and you just  _know_  that he’s mentally wandered into his backyard. What flowers must he keep there? And does he tend to them? With his schedule he must be gone so often he has someone come by to make sure they don’t shrivel and die in his absence.

“In your secret garden.”

He blinks and his eyes focus on you once more. “Is that – are you laughing at me? You’re… you are!” He doesn’t seem hurt by it. More to the point he seems to be enjoying the fact that you’re picking on him. And then comes the reason why. “– I think that’s  _at least_  worth a  _nugget_  of backstory, ________.”

“Monsieur,” you chide him, “we’re here for your story, not mine.”

“Alright then, drinks after? At least let me buy you lunch and get a detail or two.”

Smiling, you gently shake your head in the negative. “I’d hate to eat up more of your time. What about your busy schedule? Other interviews? Future projects to read through? Flowers to smell…”

He chuckles, pointing out the obvious. “That’s not a no.”

Of course it’s not an outright no. You’re not stupid enough to piss off the person you’re trying to interview. You’d like to keep your job, thanks. “Not a yes, either.”

“We’ll see.” He leans back and relaxes in his chair again, reaching down to tug at the hem of his shirt to readjust how it sits on his body. “So – where were we?”

“How about spending some time talking about your schedule? One movie due to be in theaters soon. Two in post. More due to start filming, other side projects, awards, commercials. Just how many things are you planning on taking on this year?” You replace the water bottle on the windowsill, wiping your palms on your pants to rid them of the residual bit of condensation from the sides of the bottle.

His smile comes lopsided, “You say that last bit like we’re not all guilty of trying to squeeze every last experience we can into what time we’re given.”

“I didn’t mean it as a judgment. Just marveling that you find the energy for it. Like I said, you always appear to be 100% on.” You motion to him as he fidgets in his chair. Even right now he appears that he’s trying not to get up and bound around the room.

“I’m just doing my best not to waste a single moment. Right now the offers are there, great works that I’d be foolish to let slip past.” He takes a breath and lifts his hand to run his fingers over the stubble he hadn’t shaved from his chin this morning. It’s a good look on him – not that you’re allowing The Hiddleston Effect to take hold. “I’m extremely blessed. I’m doing something that I love. And I’ll keep doing it so long as they let me. But I’m aware of the nature of the business. It won’t last.”

“Don’t make me say bullshit again.”

He laughs at the interruption, leaning forward once more. “It’s not bullshit! It’s the truth. I’m getting on in years. It’ll happen – started to already – parts are being offered that are on the cusp of what I can reasonably pull off, for my age. Demand will start waning…”

“Bul—-“

He waves his hand, his laughter drowning out the end of the word. “Alright. Alright. Believe what you will. Hand to God, it’s the truth.”

You nod, “Oh sure. We’ll just discount the tailor made roles. The movies that are delayed because they want  _you_ , or nothing. Willing to wait until you’re available, until it fits in with your schedule.” He takes a breath, ready to respond but you’re not quite through with your point, “It  _might_  wane – doubtful, so long as you maintain your passion for the work – but in the event that it  _does_ , you’ve gone on record saying that you want to try your hand at working on the opposite side of the lens.”  

“Hmm, you  _have_  done your research.”

The eye contact made as he delivers the line causes a jolt to run down your spine. Forget simply considering him good at flirting – this man could make a wall swoon. You clear your throat, shifting to cross your legs under the table and regroup. “Wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t. But back to that ever-so-full plate of yours…”

At least you’ve gotten him on track for spending some time talking about his upcoming roles. That was the type of information your boss was hoping you’d glean. Get enough from Tom on the appropriate subject matter, enough for a decent article, and you would be able to relax and let him ramble on to his heart’s content about whatever he wanted.

And ramble on he does – providing excellent quotes for you to build your article around. Every once in a while he prickles at a subject broached or question asked, but you quickly reroute and his jovial nature returns. His expertise in providing sound-bites shouldn’t surprise you all that much. He is, after all, seasoned at this sort of thing – even if he has either relied on red carpet interviews or the promotional period for his movies rather than exclusive articles like he used to.

As the interview winds down Tom starts to fidget with his empty glass bottle, though for the life of you you can’t remember when he might have paused long enough to down the water previously held within it. Boundless energy. Definitely accurate. He must either sleep like a log or – You shake yourself out of the thought.

He seems reluctant, as it is nearing time to pack up and leave, to let any certain thought be the final word. “I feel like –“ he hesitates, palming the bottle in one hand and holding it still a moment before continuing, “I feel like I’ve sat here and talked about the things I should. Talked about everything – yet nothing.”

You try for a reassuring smile, “You were nothing if not thorough in your answers, Tom. Trying to afford you  _a little_  privacy.”

“Oh come on. There’s  _nothing_  you want to know?” You shake your head in the negative. He’s trying to bait you to see if his flirting has won you over. He shakes his head to mirror your own movements before shifting his shoulders in a slight shrug, “Alright. Write your article with my empty words. I could do better, I think, if there wasn’t a time constraint.”

“Do you want me to send it to you?” The question comes out of your mouth without time to consider the wisdom of what you are offering. Your boss will have a stroke.

It gives Tom pause, too. “What?”

In for a penny…. “The audio file. Or – the article. You can look it over before I submit it. Or – since you probably have better things to do – maybe have your people—“

Tom slides the bottle to the side of the table and glances away, frowning at the wall on the far side of the room for a moment. It’s a thin frown that lasts for a blink of an eye, then he is looking at you again and  _almost_ smiling. “Why do you keep phrasing it that way?”

“What way?”

“Like I don’t eat, sleep, and breathe like every other man?”

“Well – do you? Cause by my math you are getting 48 hours to everyone else’s 24. Do you have a magical field surrounding you ensuring more hours of the day?”

Tom tilts his head just a fraction as he replies, “I’d invite you to find out, but I have a feeling I already know the answer you’d give me.”

You’ve gotten this far without faltering and ruining the interview. Maintain just a minute more. “I’m flattered…”

“But.”

You don’t even bother with your neutral smile. It vanished a few minutes after meeting him and didn’t return. Gentle, but firm. There are lines that just shouldn’t be crossed. You nod, “But.”  

“But you don’t date actors…” Tom supplies the answer you don’t want to verbalize.

What else can you add to that? Why was he even asking? For the first time since greeting one another a silence extends between the pair of you. You clear your throat, not knowing what else to do but thank him for taking time out of his day – standard conclusion bullshit that makes you internally wince.

He exhales, acknowledging the time with a glance at his watch before smiling at you once more. It’s the same smile he greeted you with upon spotting you after he walked in the door. Though warm, it isn’t quite catching. He watches you reclaim your phone, scooting out his chair as you stand so that he can come closer and offer you his hand. “_______, it was a pleasure. You – I look forward to seeing you around. If you ever cover press junkets…“ His smile broadens again, just for a second, and with it your heart decides to do a somersault within your chest. “I’ll keep an eye out.”


End file.
